‘Dwarves have no rights,’ Rook laughed, as Jakov walked to the podium. ‘We shall make him presentable for the court. A haircut never hurt anyone.’
‘You will not do this!’ Arcturus bellowed, his finger flashing blue as he raised it. The click of the muskets gave him pause, and the guards shuffled forward, the guns pointed at his chest. He sank to his knees beside Fletcher as Jakov withdrew a curved blade, stepping beside Charles and Othello.
‘Don’t watch,’ Arcturus whispered, gripping Fletcher’s wrist to stop him pulling at the sharp metal cuffs. ‘They want to see you suffer.’
Fletcher stared at Othello as he struggled, jerking left and right and gnashing at the hands with his teeth. It made him look like an animal, and the jury shook their heads in disgust.
‘I am beyond suffering,’ Fletcher replied at last, dry-eyed. All he felt was anger, raging hot within him. He could barely stop himself from blasting the manacles from his hands and charging the podium. But he knew it would be suicide, and exactly what his enemies would have wanted.
Jakov’s meaty palm held Othello in place as the blade was raised.
‘Hold still,’ he growled, grasping the dwarf ’s beard. ‘Wouldn’t want an uneven haircut, would you.’
Othello’s head dropped to his chest, the fight gone from him as the first cut was made, the snick of the knife sharp in the silence of the room. He held Fletcher’s gaze as a tuft of hair floated to the ground.
A slow tear trickled down his cheek, but Othello did not cry out. The blade flashed again and again, and each time it felt as if it had been stabbed into Fletcher’s chest. That tear was the last. Othello bore the rest of the assault in stoic silence, and Fletcher willed him all his strength and courage.
‘Good enough, Inquisitors?’ Jakov said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. The beard was trimmed now, almost as short as Rook’s.
‘Hmmm. The ponytail. I’ll keep it as a souvenir,’ Charles said, lifting it with his hand. Othello closed his eyes as the knife swished again.
‘Perhaps I should fashion it into a shaving brush,’ Charles laughed, flicking it back and forth like a horse’s tail.
‘Far too dirty for that,’ Rook replied, wrinkling his nose in disgust. ‘Now the moustache. All of it – I’ve always wondered what a dwarf looks like witho—’
But he never finished his sentence. The doors at the back of the room slammed open, unleashing a gale of rain and whistling wind. A Griffin stalked through the doorway, emerging from the darkness with a screech. There was a uniformed rider astride it, her black hair plastered across pale cheeks. She lifted the goggles from her face, to reveal a pair of grey eyes that surveyed the scene with cold anger.
‘Captain Lovett,’ Fletcher breathed, hardly believing it possible. The last time he had seen her, she had been in a coma, only able to communicate through her Mite, Valens.
Lovett rode down the centre of the room, leaving a trail of dripping water and ignoring the aghast looks from the crowd on either side. Still astride the regal beast, she stopped beside Jakov and snatched the knife from his hand. Rook, momentarily lost for words, suddenly found his tongue.
‘Captain Lovett. How dare you ride into a court of law! Dismount at once or be found in contempt!’
Lovett let the knife fall to the floor, a look of disgust plain on her face.
‘I can’t,’ she said.
‘Can’t, or won’t?’ Rook snarled, standing up from the high table.
‘Can’t,’ Lovett replied, tossing her hair. ‘I’m paralysed from the waist down.’
9
As Rook spluttered, unsure how to respond, Lovett turned her gaze to Fletcher. She gave him a barely perceptible nod, then walked her Griffin, Lysander, over to the jury.
‘I am here to tell you that Fletcher and Othello were not complicit in the crime. They were defending themselves from being attacked by ten men, and they barely escaped with their lives. The dwarf had been shot and Fletcher was carrying him to safety. My own Mite, Valens, stung a soldier who had captured them, allowing them to get away.’
‘You helped them escape?’ Rook roared, slamming his fists on the table. ‘After the murder of five soldiers?’
‘I saved them from being slaughtered in cold blood, after merely protecting themselves from a group of soldiers who were hunting dwarves for sport.’ Lovett’s voice was clear and confident, her gaze moving steadily across the jury.
Charles held up a hand and wagged a finger, smiling and shaking his head.
‘Not so fast, Captain Lovett. I have it on good authority that you were in ethershock until a few months ago … hence your unfortunate paralysis. How could you have seen the events that night?’
‘Through Valens, my demon. I was able to learn to see through his eyes without using a scrying stone, as have others before me.’ She lifted her chin and stared back, defiantly.
‘Preposterous. Only the most skilled of summoners are able to master that technique,’ Charles said, waving his hand dismissively.